A Midwinter's Tail

by Bethany Blake

“Yes, you’re probably right,” I reluctantly agreed. I’d been so reassured by Jonathan’s belief in Moxie’s innocence that I hadn’t thought much about lawyers, even when she’d been questioned a second time. I’d kind of assumed that Moxie would be fine, and that her guilelessness might actually help her. After all, if she simply stated the truth in her quirky but straightforward way, she’d be hard not to believe. But perhaps it was time to encourage her to consult with a legal professional. “Mom, you deal with lawyers all the time,” I noted. “Do you know anyone who does criminal law?”

  “I do not get involved in crimes!” Mom said, drawing back like I’d smacked her. She’d obviously, or conveniently, overlooked the fact that she had been a prime suspect in a recent murder. Then she smoothed her scarf—a subtly Christmasy red-and-green geometric print—getting herself back under control and speaking more calmly. “However, I will make some inquiries on Moxie’s behalf,” she assured me. “And because I fear that you will need a lawyer soon, Daphne.”

  I started to insist that I wouldn’t need an attorney, only to realize that my mother might be right. I half expected Jonathan to walk through the door at any moment, telling me that it was my turn under the interrogation spotlight. Not that he had a real spotlight. It just felt that way when he was trying to get answers.

  Perhaps my sister and my mother, who’d both endured Jonathan’s scrutiny, too, were recalling their own interrogations, because we all got quiet for a moment, the hush intensified by the blanket of snow piling up outside.

  Inside, Flour Power was as cheerful as always, thanks in large part to the mod, pink flowers Moxie had painted on the walls. I’d decorated for the holidays, too, placing colorful lights around the window and door and setting a Santa hat on the cat-shaped wall clock with the swinging tail and shifting eyes. I’d even hung a few small, cute dog and cat-shaped ornaments on the thriving bamboo plant that Jonathan had given me. But I couldn’t help feeling uneasy, and the comfort food on my plate and warming drink didn’t taste as good, either, when I pictured the scissors, glinting on the street.

  My sister, at least, was on board my train of thought. “Tell me again,” she urged. “How in the world did you end up holding what is likely CeeCee French’s murder weapon?”

  I set down my fork, prepared to tell that tale again, when all at once something banged against the door, and I spun around, pointing and speaking before I even had a chance to think.

  “Him! That little pug, with his paws against the glass!” I whipped back around, facing my mother and sister, who were looking at me like I was crazy. “Please, tell me you see him, too!”

  Chapter 19

  “Come back!” I begged the pug, stumbling through the snow and struggling to put on my coat, which Piper had shoved into my arms, after promising to watch Flour Power while I was out. The dog—whom my sister and mother had seen, thank goodness—trotted ahead of me. I almost got the sense that he wanted me to follow him, because he wasn’t darting away at his usual pace. His red sweater bobbed steadily in front of me, a beacon in the storm. Then all at once, he did vanish, around a corner.

  “Wait!” I called, skidding when I tried to follow him. I was glad that Sylvan Creek had become a ghost town as the storm grew more intense, because I must’ve looked very strange. But I felt as if I had to catch the dog if I was ever going to convince Jonathan Black that the pug had brought me the scissors. I picked up my pace, running after the pug down the alley I’d sneaked through the night before. However, we weren’t headed toward Spa and Paw. He was leading me in the other direction. “Come, please!”

  The dog didn’t listen. Instead, he continued his purposeful journey, making one more turn down a narrow lane I probably hadn’t visited ten times in the whole time I’d lived in Sylvan Creek, because it was a dead end, almost like a miniature, half-block neighborhood unto itself.

  I slowed down, not sure where the dog would take me next, and hoped he wouldn’t disappear between two of the adorable tall, narrow houses that lined the street. Fortunately, he stopped in front of a lovely, lilac-colored home with gingerbread trim. Then the pug turned, looked me straight in the eye, and yipped loudly. The sound was definitely a summons.

  “I’m coming,” I promised, as he hopped up onto the house’s porch.

  I hurried up the steps, too, just as a cheerful, red door swung open, and a man bent down to pick up my guide, scolding him gently and affectionately. “Tiny Tim, where have you been this time?” Straightening, with the dog wriggling happily in his arms, the man smiled at me, the expression in his brown eyes warm enough to ward off the chill of the snowflakes landing on my bare cheeks. “Thank you for bringing him. . . .”

  His voice died off, and the warmth flickered out, replaced by something like fear when he recognized me. I could feel my own eyes growing wide, because I knew him, too.

  “Da . . . Daphne?” he stuttered, while I pointed and exclaimed, “Mike Cavanaugh! I knew you were in town!”

  Chapter 20

  I was pretty sure Moxie’s former boyfriend wasn’t rich in terms of money, but his nook-sized efficiency apartment, which consisted of a few small rooms on the first floor of the pale-purple Victorian house, was more appealing to me than the biggest penthouse Manhattan had to offer.

  Not that I’d spent a lot of time . . . or any time . . . in penthouses. I just knew for a fact that Mike Cavanaugh had created a welcoming home for himself and the dog named Tiny Tim.

  At least, I thought Mike and the dog were the only residents of the apartment, where I stood in the living room, warming myself by a fireplace with a crisp, white mantel while Mike brewed some coffee. The hearth was flanked by two overstuffed chairs that looked like they would swallow someone up, in a good way, if he or she sat down with a book and a cup of tea. An old-fashioned braided rug, placed between the seats, would be the perfect spot for a dog with wanderlust to snooze after a snowy adventure. And the small kitchen, visible through an arched doorway, was painted a soft and cheerful shade of yellow that brought some sunshine into the gloomy day.

  “Mike, this place is wonderful,” I said, as he stepped under the arch, joining me in the living room.

  “It’s not much,” he said, with the slightest shrug. He carried two mismatched mugs, and he was being careful not to spill, because his limp was pronounced—and the pug kept darting between his feet, twirling and prancing with excitement.

  I was starting to think Tiny Tim was high-spirited, like Artie, as opposed to a troublemaker.

  Well, maybe the pug was a bit of a scamp.

  “Settle, Timmy,” Mike urged, placing both mugs on a small end table between the chairs. He smiled at me in a lopsided and somewhat nervous way, as if my presence still made him uneasy. But he’d insisted that I come inside for a quick drink, so he could thank me for escorting the pug home. I’d texted Piper, telling her to put a “back in 15 minutes” sign in the window, then accepted, because I had a lot of questions for Moxie’s high school love. “I apologize for Timmy’s behavior,” he added, gesturing for me to take a seat. “We don’t get many visitors, and I think he’s excited.”

  “I take it he’s not a fan of the holidays,” I noted, pointing at the pup’s red sweater with its play on the quote from Scrooge. “Assuming that’s really his motto.”

  Mike laughed, seeming more relaxed. “He actually has five of those sweaters, which Tessie Flinchbaugh sold me at a discount. She bought a few too many, overestimating how many pugs live in Sylvan Creek—and probably how many people like bad pug puns.”

  That explained why the dog always wore the same outfit.

  “I make sure he’s always dressed for the weather,” Mike added, shooting Tiny Tim a frustrated but loving look. “He’s such a little escape artist that I want to make sure he’s at least warm when he somehow manages to sneak out.”

  Tiny Tim spun a few circles on his short legs, as if his escapades delighted him, at least, and I sat down, sinking into a chair that was as soft as I’d expected. Gettin
g myself situated, I asked, “How long have you had him?”

  Mike took a seat, too, and Tiny Tim thunked down on the rug, his wrinkled head between his black-tipped paws and his round eyes rolling restlessly, as if he was ready to pop up again at a moment’s notice.

  “I adopted Timmy about a month ago—right before I moved here,” Mike said, his gaze suddenly fixed on the fire. His mood had shifted, and he hunched his shoulders, sinking deeper into his chair, as if he wanted it to literally swallow him. “I’ve been trying to keep a low profile, but I know you saw me a few times.”

  “Yes. Near the theater, right? Twice. Including the day CeeCee French addressed the whole town.”

  He nodded. “Yes. I’d heard she was in town, and I wanted to see her after all these years. Not speak to her. Just see how time had treated her.”

  I wasn’t sure what to make of that comment. “So, why’d you dart off?”

  He finally met my gaze. “I’ve been trying to steer clear of everyone from high school.” We hadn’t mentioned Moxie yet, and he still didn’t speak her name. But I was pretty sure she was the main person he’d been trying to avoid. “I know that’s ridiculous in a town this size,” he added. “And I know I can’t hide out forever, because I don’t have plans to leave Sylvan Creek . . . don’t have anywhere else to go, really . . . since my Uncle Jack was kind enough to give me a job at his garage, out on Pine Road.” He shrugged. “When options run out, I guess we turn to the familiarity of home.”

  I’d forgotten that Mike’s family owned a garage and auto body repair shop, just outside Sylvan Creek. “I’ve readopted the community, too, after being a bit of a nomad,” I noted. I thought about how happy I was with my friends, family, cottage, and businesses. “Coming home can be a good thing.”

  “Yes, I may come to see things that way.” Mike tapped his bad leg. “And I’m lucky that my uncle lets me work behind a desk most of the day, keeping the books, doing invoices—things like that. I’m pretty good with engines. But standing too long is still painful, since the accident.”

  Tiny Tim raised his head and yipped, as if he wasn’t happy with who or whatever had harmed his person. And I dared to venture, tentatively, “Do you mind if I ask what happened?”

  Mike smiled again, but wryly. “It was a car accident, in a war zone. Syria. But not a battle-related injury.” His grin was extinguished, replaced by a haunted look. “I saw enough combat, though.” Then he obviously shook off whatever dark memories had just haunted him and clapped a hand on his leg again. “But this thing was just dumb luck on a dangerous road, a few days before I was shipping home for good.”

  “I’m so sorry,” I said, thinking Mike had several things in common with Jonathan Black—including good looks. Moxie’s old flame had grown into quite a handsome man. He still had his thick head of dark-brown, wavy hair and an athletic build. Back in high school, he’d been a star multi-sport athlete, so, while he hadn’t rivaled CeeCee and Jeff Updegrove for top spots in our class, he’d won a Wynton scholarship, nonetheless, because he’d been so well rounded. Age, and no doubt experience, seemed to have added an appealing gentleness to Mike, too. It was just a feeling I got, sitting next to him.

  And yet, a tiny part of me couldn’t help wondering if he’d had something to do with CeeCee French’s murder.

  After all, Mike’s dog had shown up with what was likely the murder weapon. And Mike had said that strange thing about wanting to see Celeste, who had played a role in his breakup with Moxie . . .

  “We’re both thinking about Celeste, aren’t we?” he asked, softly and seriously. “About her murder.”

  I swore, the storm seemed to intensify in response to his mention of CeeCee’s death. Wind rattled the tall, narrow windows on either side of the fireplace, and snow swirled past the panes.

  “You’re thinking about how I ran away from Sylvan Creek and abandoned my scholarship to Wynton,” Mike continued, “only to end up battle-scarred and beaten up, sharing a few rooms with one terribly behaved rescue dog for a friend. And it’s probably crossed your mind that the . . . incident with CeeCee French, back at a holiday dance, set so much of that in motion.”

  Tiny Tim yapped loudly. I felt like he was letting Mike know that he, at least, was grateful for their circumstances and the chance at a home.

  In spite of his bad behavior, the pug was quickly winning my heart, too. I could think of worse friends.

  In fact, a girl who’d behaved questionably toward others, back in high school, was on my mind, right then. Mike had guessed correctly.

  “Yes, I was thinking about CeeCee,” I admitted, settling deeper into the chair. “I’m actually interested in getting to the bottom of the crime. Because right now, it seems as if Moxie is a prime suspect. And we both know she couldn’t hurt, let alone kill, anyone.”

  Moxie Bloom’s name was finally out there, the elephant in vintage clothing unleashed upon the snug room, and Mike again looked pained. Maybe more so than when he’d recalled his time in battle. He leaned forward, twisting his hands, and the pug whimpered.

  “I’ve been reading about Moxie and CeeCee in the local paper,” he said, his voice hitching when he spoke both those names. “And I don’t care what the police or reporters think.” I didn’t interrupt to tell him there was only one reporter. Gabriel Graham. “There’s no way Moxie murdered CeeCee,” he continued. “I might not have seen her for years, but nobody changes that much. She’d never harm a living thing. And I’m sure she forgave CeeCee, ages ago, for everything that went wrong.”

  Mike again had trouble getting his words out. And it was clear that he hadn’t managed to forgive CeeCee yet. He obviously still hadn’t absolved himself, either, for his role in the high-school-dance debacle.

  “Mike . . .” My mind was spinning in so many directions that I didn’t know where to steer the conversation next. I finally settled on the weapon. “Do you know about Tiny Tim and the scissors? Did he bring them here, before leaving them with me?”

  I could tell, before he even responded, that Mike had no idea what I was talking about. He continued to lean forward, his hands clasped between his knees and a frown dragging down the corners of his mouth. Then he glanced at the pug, who watched us, his head still between his paws and his eyes still rolling. Mike looked at me again, his expression guarded, as if he already suspected what I was about to say. “What scissors? What are you talking about?”

  I believed that he was genuinely clueless. Either that, or he should join the Sylvan Creek Players. Maybe take my spot in the rehearsal I was scheduled to attend the following night.

  “Daphne, the scissors—and Timmy,” Mike said, making a rolling motion with his hand. “I’m getting concerned, here.”

  “Oh, yes,” I said, getting back to the matter at hand.

  “From what I understand, the coroner thinks CeeCee’s killer used a pair of scissors,” I explained, hoping that information wasn’t confidential anymore. I doubted that I was sharing a secret, but I added, “Please keep that to yourself for now, okay? I’m not positive that news is public yet.”

  Although I could tell that he had no idea where I was headed with the discussion, Mike nodded gravely. “Sure.”

  “Anyhow, I was out last night, and Tiny Tim ran up to me and dropped a pair of scissors right at my feet.” I paused for a long time, letting Mike digest that strange story, while I tried to figure out what to say next. “I’m pretty sure the scissors belonged to Moxie, and I know for a fact that the detective who’s investigating the case had been looking for them. There was a pair missing from the drawer where Moxie keeps all of her instruments.”

  All the color drained from Mike’s face as he quickly grasped what I was saying. “The detective . . . Black, that’s his name, right? The one who always refuses to talk to reporters.”

  Jonathan’s silence was probably another reason Gabriel sometimes got prickly about him. I nodded. “Yes. Jonathan Black.”

  “He thinks Moxie killed CeeCee with a pair of sci
ssors that my dog was, for some reason, carrying around?”

  Tiny Tim whined, as if chastising himself. But his curly tail was wagging.

  Mike groaned. “Timmy, what have you done?”

  The bah, hum-pug yapped again, shrilly, defending himself.

  Then Mike turned miserable eyes on me. “I suppose I’m mixed up in this whole mess now, too. And, to make matters worse, everyone around here knows there was no love lost between me and Celeste French.” He drew back slightly, frowning as he tried to piece things together. “Why hasn’t Detective Black contacted me?”

  “If he even knows who you are, I doubt he’s aware that you’re in Sylvan Creek,” I pointed out. “I wasn’t sure you were really in town, before today. And I certainly didn’t know that you and Tiny Tim were connected.”

  “But the police must be looking for him.”

  “I doubt it,” I said. “I couldn’t get anyone to believe Tiny Tim even existed, let alone that he’d delivered a potential murder weapon to me.” Reaching for my mug, I sipped my coffee, which was strong and black. A preference for dark roast was apparently something else Mike shared with Jonathan. Fighting the urge to wince, I swallowed the bitter brew, adding, “I was honestly starting to wonder if I’d dreamed the dog up. Because a mysterious pug who always wears a ‘bah, hum-pug’ sweater, causing trouble, then vanishing . . .” I shook my head. “It seemed unlikely, even to me, who kept seeing him!”

  “Wait a second.” Mike’s gaze darted back and forth between me and Tiny Tim, who had squeezed his eyes shut and hunkered down even lower to the floor, if that was possible. I swore, he was cringing in anticipation of his person’s next question, posed to me. “Where else have you seen Tiny Tim?”

  I didn’t want to get the little dog in too much trouble, so I didn’t mention how he’d knocked over a charity kettle, nor how he’d pushed me. However—cringing, myself, and shooting the pug an apologetic glance—I told Mike, “He was at Pettigrew Park the night of CeeCee’s murder. In fact, he popped out from under the tree where her body was found, only to run away before anyone else saw him.”